


An invitation, not an obligation

by robotboy



Series: The Doksany Stories [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s01e06 The Exiles, First Time, M/M, MuskiesRewatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 11:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: Aramis and D'Artagnan camp out on a mission.





	An invitation, not an obligation

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not quite as stand-alone as the last few! The Musketeers are getting in some entanglements at this point. So if you haven't read the last few: D'Artagnan is aware that Porthos and Aramis are having an affair. He's kissed Porthos before. He doesn't know what's going on with Athos (who occasionally sleeps with Aramis and Porthos), but he's desperately crushing.

Aramis considered himself an excellent teacher.

D’Artagnan and he rode out of Paris together. The monastery was over a day’s ride away, with no inn placed well enough to break the journey outward. They were packed with supplies, and Aramis showed D’Artagnan how to make a soldier’s camp.

D’Artagnan had been watching him all day, not nearly as subtly as he might have thought. Then again, Aramis had a sharp eye, especially when it came to attraction. D’Artagnan was almost humming with it, and had been for weeks now.

He pretended not to notice while they tied up their horses in a grove hidden off the road. D’Artagnan offered to shoot them a rabbit—with summer nearly over, they were practically underfoot—but Aramis denied him. On a warm night like this, and with the provisions they had, it was more trouble than necessary to skin and cook anything. D’Artagnan had the quick feet of a scout—if they could train him out of charging headlong into trouble—and camping without a fire would be a useful skill when it was needed. Serge had provisioned them generously: there was bread, cheese, a little smoked meat, and some apples to share with the horses. Hardly a feast, but neither of them found himself wishing he’d skinned a rabbit.

They talked as twilight lingered late, Aramis taking his time finishing his apple. It was tart, one of the first of the season. The juice burst from it with each bite.

Aramis was never one to shy from the theatrical. Without the other Inseparables to roll their eyes, he licked each finger clean. D’Artagnan’s eyes were wide and black. Aramis went further, two fingers tracing his lower lip idly. More than that, and the boy would believe he was being teased, not tempted. Aramis had no intent of making fun of him.

It was Porthos who’d seduced him first, and Aramis was pleased with that. Had Aramis done it himself, they'd never have let him live it down. Athos would take a thousand years, if he ever managed to allow himself what he so obviously, desperately wanted. Porthos, though, was gentle and certain. Perfect, in Aramis’ opinion, for this and a great many other things. So D’Artagnan knew something of their… Inseparability. And of Porthos’ splendid kissing.

When Treville had assigned Aramis and D’Artagnan this mission, it was with the instruction; ‘Show him the ropes.’ Aramis had consulted Porthos on the matter of  _which_  ropes the boy was ready to be shown. Porthos had given him a lazy grin. ‘You’ll know what he wants,’ had been his advice. ‘And I know what  _you_  want.’

It was a warm night, and without a fire, they had arranged their bedrolls side by side. D’Artagnan lay conspicuously close, inching further into Aramis’ space with each shuffling movement. Aramis tilted toward him, open enough to be an invitation, not an obligation. He smiled in the dark as D’Artagnan’s hand brushed over his chest, lingering a moment longer than he needed to rearrange a blanket.

The moon was bright enough to catch a glint in D’Artagnan’s eyes where they darted over Aramis. Aramis knew an old wives’ tale of Gascons seeing in the dark—and he tested it. He brought his hand to his mouth once more, two fingers extended to trail idly from his moustache to his lips, almost as if to yawn.

D’Artagnan followed as if by instinct, his own fingers curling to mirror Aramis’. Aramis watched through his lashes, his own hand shifting away to let D’Artagnan’s replace it. A sigh escaped D’Artagnan as his touch ghosted over Aramis’ mouth, tracing the line of his lower lip with blunt fingers. Aramis breathed softly, letting D’Artagnan’s touch drag his mouth open. D’Artagnan explored with more confidence, shifting his body closer as he did. He pushed a little at Aramis’ teeth and Aramis welcomed him, his tongue flicking out. He hadn’t realised his eyes had fallen shut until he drew D’Artagnan’s fingers in and made D’Artagnan gasp sharply.

Aramis was good at this. He teased and cajoled with his tongue until D’Artagnan’s knuckles were drawn into his mouth. D’Artagnan’s breath caught with every clever twist of Aramis’ tongue, and a quiet moan slipped from him when Aramis hollowed his cheeks. He kept the pressure light—no need to show off yet—but still D’Artagnan was squirming. His leg was sliding along Aramis’ now, heat radiating from his torso. He grew surer in himself, fingers stiffening to test Aramis’ mouth. Aramis responded by taking it as deep as he could, right to the back of his throat. He smiled around D’Artagnan’s knuckles and even in the gloom he could see D’Artagnan’s eyes widening. Then he slid all the way off, sloppier than he needed to, and caught D’Artagnan’s wrist as it fell.

D’Artagnan surged forward to kiss him, catching Aramis by surprise. His lips were plush, as if they’d been kissed for hours, contrasting the slight graze of his stubble. He’d lost all hesitation now, devouring Aramis’ mouth, tongue seeking Aramis’. As with everything he did, his lack of practice was more than compensated by enthusiasm. He gave a lilting whine of need. Aramis drew their blankets away, exposing them both to the night air.

D’Artagnan’s hands were on his shoulders, his chest, his waist. Aramis arched into the touch, letting himself be explored. The kiss was still hungry, becoming impatient. D’Artagnan groaned, sidling closer until the source of his frustration was pressed against Aramis’ thigh.

Aramis held D’Artagnan’s hip, pulling him close and keeping him steady. D’Artagnan’s head tipped back as he gasped, and Aramis kissed down his chin to his throat. He nipped and sucked, never enough to leave a mark. D’Artagnan may have wanted him to, with the strength he pulled Aramis closer, but Aramis thought the better of it. He kept his touch firm on D’Artagnan’s hip, spreading his hand and pressing his fingers into D’Artagnan’s thigh. His mouth dipped to D’Artagnan’s chest and he slid lower. The moment D’Artagnan understood his intention, he raked his hands through Aramis’ hair—not pulling, not pushing, but clearly wanting to. Aramis let him, cocking his head playfully, and reaching to unlace D’Artagnan’s braies. He nuzzled the thick hair of D’Artagnan’s belly, delighting in the musky smell of him. Then he tapped D’Artagnan’s hip, reminding him he’d need to move if he wanted the braies off.

D’Artagnan’s hand slipped from his hair to cup his jaw. The moonlight outlined the edge of his cupid’s bow, casting a shadow where his lower lip was clutched between his teeth.

Aramis propped himself on one elbow and stared up.

‘Really?’ was all D’Artagnan asked.

‘Would you like me to?’ Aramis replied.

‘ _Yes_ ,’ he replied breathlessly, immediately. He kicked the braies off, landing on his back with a sigh.

Aramis laid a head on D’Artagnan’s thigh, lips teasing at the sensitive skin there. His finger followed the sharp line of D’Artagnan’s hipbone, then his nails raked gently through the hair that followed. His touch was feather-light as he found the base of D’Artagnan’s cock. Aramis took his time. The size of it would be  _quite_ satisfying—perhaps a little challenging. Aramis found himself speculating as he wrapped his hand around it, considering the weight, the heat, the way D’Artagnan was twitching with need. How it might feel inside him—or in one of the others. How he might hold it like this, if he were amenable to being fucked himself.

Aramis would happily have stayed in reverie through the night, if D’Artagnan hadn’t made a strangled noise and yanked his hair. To business, then.

He started once more with his tongue, laving from root to tip. The first lick was easy. The second was firm. The third was wet, and finished with Aramis’ lips wrapping around the head of D’Artagnan’s cock. D’Artagnan gasped and Aramis had to grab his hip again, steadying him. He hummed, making D’Artagnan whine, and flicked his tongue in just the same way he had with D’Artagnan’s fingers. The temptation to tease was great, but the inclination to show off was greater. Besides that, he was already so very fond of D’Artagnan—he had no wish to delay this any further. He curled his tongue around D’Artagnan’s cock and sucked.

With the sound D’Artagnan made, Aramis was glad their campsite was secluded from the road.

He bobbed his head, revelling in the desperate little thrusts he was provoking. D’Artagnan’s fingertips rubbed into his skull, not steering but encouraging. Aramis took the base of D’Artagnan’s cock in his hand, building a loose rhythm from the chaotic pleasure it was stirring in D’Artagnan.

When Aramis returned to lick the head, D’Artagnan was making a thoroughly wet mess already. Aramis was perversely fond of the taste, and he made little secret of it.

While he could bring D’Artagnan off just like this, with one hand and the tip of his tongue, he rather liked the weight of D’Artagnan’s cock in his mouth. D’Artagnan whimpered when Aramis took his hand away, following with an altogether different kind of sound when Aramis slid his lips back around him. Aramis got his own braies open one-handed, giving his own aching cock the attention it needed. It was clumsy, with his attention focused on D’Artagnan, but nothing got him off like doing this—like bringing this out in a lover. D’Artagnan, always so uninhibited, was lovely like this. His sounds and touches were pleading Aramis for more. Aramis was all too happy to oblige, to smell and taste him, and to confirm that the swift camaraderie they’d felt with D’Artagnan spilled over into this.

He’d saved his best trick for last. When D’Artagnan was shivering, short whining sounds getting higher, Aramis swallowed him down. When his nose was pressed into the hair at the base, he stole a glance up. It was too dark to see, but he could imagine the way D’Artagnan’s mouth was falling open with the cry he let out. He came down Aramis’ throat, pulling him impossibly closer. Aramis brought himself off quickly, before he’d need to release D’Artagnan and get his breath back. He moaned around D’Artagnan’s cock, making D’Artagnan groan back at the feeling of it. D’Artagnan withdrew, oversensitive, and Aramis gasped for breath through his nose. The smell of sex was intoxicating when Aramis was already a little dizzy. He panted against D’Artagnan’s thigh, slowly tucking both of them back in before wiping his mouth and crawling back up.

D’Artagnan nuzzled him, arm wrapping loosely around his shoulders. Aramis gave him a short kiss, sparing him the taste of anything more.

‘Good?’ he asked, eyebrows raised.

‘Really good,’ D’Artagnan confirmed, his voice hoarse. Aramis ran his fingers through D’Artagnan’s hair, getting him settled. D’Artagnan felt boneless, turning himself over in Aramis’ arms. He came to rest with his back pressed flush to Aramis’ chest, the blankets pulled over both of them.

Aramis expected the boy to fall asleep quickly. This close, though, he could feel that D’Artagnan was awake.

‘Was this alright?’ he murmured. ‘We need not speak of it again, if you don’t wish to.’

D’Artagnan reached over to squeeze his hand. ‘No, it’s alright. I like this.’

Aramis believed him. Minutes passed, though, and D’Artagnan’s restlessness was catching.

‘You're fidgeting. Not used to sleeping on the hard ground?’

‘It’s not that,’ D’Artagnan said mulishly. ‘I’ve slept on the ground plenty of times before.’

‘Ah, you hardened Gascon rustic,’ Aramis teased. ‘Tell me what’s on your mind.’

D’Artagnan said nothing, but his blankets continued to rustle.

‘Would you be more comfortable if we moved the bedrolls?’ Aramis offered.

‘No,’ D’Artagnan insisted. ‘This is fine. This is good.’

Still, he did not settle.

‘D’Artagnan,’ Aramis spoke more solemnly. ‘Given what’s transpired, I hope you understand that our brotherhood shares a great deal of trust. You may confide in me. I am quite good at giving advice.’

‘If not following it?’ D’Artagnan drawled.

‘I retract what I said,’ Aramis patted D’Artagnan’s arm playfully. ‘You should  _not_  trust Porthos, when he says anything about me.’

He felt D’Artagnan laugh.

‘Now, tell me what troubles you, so we can get the sleep we’ve earned.’

D’Artagnan took a heavy breath, and Aramis waited.

‘Athos…’ he started, then hesitated.

Aramis smiled to himself privately. D’Artagnan leaned his head back a little.

‘Does he know of… this?’

‘Unless he has  _frighteningly_  good hearing, it’s safe to say he does not,’ Aramis joked.

‘ _Aramis_ ,’ D’Artagnan said, in a tone that was far too like the way the others said it. The boy learned things so quickly.

‘It’s alright,’ Aramis assured him. ‘You need not keep secrets from Athos. He knows what Porthos and I do together.’

How  _intimately_  he knew, Aramis did not clarify.

‘And… does he…?’ D’Artagnan trailed off, hope ringing in the question.

‘Athos hates to even speak of his own desires. For you and I to speak of them would pain him greatly.’

‘But do you think he has…? Desires?’

‘Of course he does. But I think if I were to say any more, he would be less likely still to act upon them.’

‘Wait, do you mean—’

‘I mean, best not ask me any more, lest I be accused of “ _meddling_ ”.’ Aramis had some of Porthos’ accent in the final word, it being Porthos’ accusation.

D’Artagnan sighed, but nodded. Aramis kissed the nape of his neck to comfort him. The boy ached as obviously for Athos as Athos did for him. Aramis had promised himself (and Porthos) that he wouldn’t interfere, and now he had the measure of D’Artagnan’s robust sense of initiative, he hoped he wouldn’t need to. If Athos’ equally robust sense of self-punishment did not prompt him to deny himself, anyway. That was the reason Aramis had not taken Porthos’ bet about when it would happen.

That, and he loved and respected his comrades. As did Porthos, of course.

He’d put five livre on it taking until Christmas.


End file.
